


una buona mamma vale cento maestre

by gatsbyparty



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Self-Indulgent, always self-indulgent, stupid dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:17:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatsbyparty/pseuds/gatsbyparty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The memory throws up high and dry<br/>A crowd of twisted things;</p><p>Her Imperious Condescension was a wiggler once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	una buona mamma vale cento maestre

**Author's Note:**

> I'M NOT SORRY

_The memory throws up high and dry_

_A crowd of twisted things;_

_T.S. Eliot-Rhapsody on a Windy Night_

_  
_

Solid egg, flushed light on closed eyes. Cracked egg, popped shells, fragments cast to the floor, light is gone. Dark cave, light drawn in whorls on wiggler skin, fins that  pap pap at your head, hair larger than you. Chirping and struggling, cries of the damned. Tracks of color, maps and traces and swirls of Trials. Past others, smaller, weaker, lower, gore rust-red and indigo-bright onto horns, follow the light, up and up to the light. Body count racks higher as cave grows lighter.   
  
Burst out of the wiggler caves, naked and soft-skinned and short horned, eleven shades of blood drying and flaking, and then.   
  
And then.    
  
Mother. Warm, white, glowing, sea-salt, riptide smell, takes you to the water.   
  
Lungs pressurize. Gills widen into hungry little mouths, suck up water so salty, so fishfat and coldwater and currentfast it makes you dizzy with it. You swim, instinct rising with the tide, and joy and the sea are the same.   
  
Grow. Pupate. Pan is less squashy, develop an identity.   
  
You are a girl. You are a troll. ou have responsibilities and education and an uprecedented height for your caste. You are the Empress Ascendant in the times of the dark stars, when their far hard light is a mystery. When you go high enough you see the little pinpricks in the sky through the water.   
  
You wonder  What is there? and  How do I get there?   
  
You decide  It is mine. I will claim them. The stars are yours as everything else is yours, from the small hard world to the drag of gravity to the expanses of space and all within it.   
  
You sit on docks and swing your feet, when you are older and braver and fiercer, a trident in your lap and your face turned skyward. Nights come and go. Your eyelashes and mouth and eyes thread with tyrian. Your horns spiral up to the stars. You kill the Empress with your trident, in the middle of the day. The middle tine scrapes off a piece of her vertebrae and you hang it on a chain.   
  
You sit on your throne for the first time when you are five sweeps old, and travel to the stars three hundred times that span later.


End file.
